From The Ballrooms

Awakened into the orbit where they are Without voices—somewhere shouting mutedly To the remaining coyotes who have no dinner dates: The circus and the fireworks tents Are taken down and someone else writes a betterNovel and dreams of running away—Ogled by truckers in the shopping malls of theirHeirlooms—as the Indians sleep downhill fromThe flea markets of their gas stations—And their dreams have no stanzas—maybe it is Because they fought too long, and that they couldn'tUnderstand any of their numbers: When they saw the goldfish in the wishing wells ofTheir shopping malls, they just pissed on them—And did not wait for the rain to leave to step outside: They became too drunkardly for their girlfriendsWho left them for boys who could almost always beDefined by their occupations—firefighters and werewolves, As the lights fell away from the cities at the edge ofThe world that no one cared about—far away fromThe ballrooms in which almost anyone could become famous.